HUNGER OF THE WICKED

4.

Darya slowly opened her eyes. Did she just have a nightmare? Excellent question. Because of enduring chaotic sleeping periods, overwhelmed with cruel and repetitive images, it seemed to her that she remained permanently in her bad dreams. They circled like a skipping record, to the point that they were an integral part of her days, just like meals.

She looked up at the clock: 9:37 pm. She straightened gently, stretched, then finally got up and zigzagged towards her bathroom. There, she sprinkled her face with cold water before contemplating her reflection in the mirror. My pretty little face, the only one that escapes my curse. Pretty... She winced. How many times had she considered letting her hair grow, to hide this awful scar? Hundreds. Yet, it was still short. The wild, facetious curls on the top hid nothing of her stigma. She wanted people to see, so they knew that life had marked her forever, even if they weren’t likely to understand what it meant.

She touched the wound with her fingertips. Today, she could look at it for a long time, touch it, without being sad. This wasn’t the case at the beginning. She remembered having broken many mirrors, avoided passing close to windows, and fleeing her reflection in the mirrored surface of the Tom. For a time, this mark focused her resentment, multiplying her desire to get away from everyone. Droski had brought her back among the living, though she continued to be careful for it not to be excessively frequent. She would no longer hide. She faced her reality, come what may.

The girl pulled her hair vaguely, considered taking a shower, changed her mind, then merely changed her hoody and tee-shirt. Facing the wardrobe, she chuckled. She had slept with her Tokarev, kept in her belt holster at her side! I’m just having a bad day. Thus dressed, she went into the living room, put on her jacket, and left her refuge. She had a job interview.

Kolevski liked to stroll around the city at night. The few passers-by didn’t linger and had a strange tendency to stay away from their fellow-creatures as if the darkness altered the aspirations of each. The girl was very comfortable with this situation.

She went up Zelenogorskiy shopping street, almost deserted, avoiding the exit of the only bar still open, and then made her way up to the laundromat. There, leaning against the window, she observed the old house on the other side, which must date from the 1950s. Built-in a neo-Gothic style, it was still in good condition despite the obvious lack of maintenance. The small garden that surrounded it was overrun with weeds, tall and entangled like frantic lovers. The windows, with heavy closed shutters, let no light filter out. Darya looked at her watch and then quickly crossed the road. She pushed open the wrought iron gate, which creaked in protest, before climbing the front steps. She was about to knock on the door when it opened silently on a deserted hallway. Her hand on the grip of her gun, the girl entered, checked that no one was hiding behind the door before proceeding inside the house. The door closed behind her in the same inexplicable manner. Muscles tensed, she continued forward and entered a large drawing-room. A pleasant fire was burning in the imposing fireplace, the rare furniture shone with the most beautiful luster, from the inside out; two chandeliers illuminated a table, upon which cutlery was laid with great care. Intrigued, Darya approached. A red rose was placed across a porcelain plate decorated with gold trimmings.

“You like the rose, I hope?”

The girl spun around, drawing her Tokarev. She immediately gasped. She faltered, stepped back, leaned against the table, her eyes fixed on the man who was smiling, graciously. Her hand was shaking to the point that the gun’s weight felt far too heavy to remain there. Her host was surprised by her reaction and bowed.

“Forgive me for scaring you. Let me introduce myself: Rempert Ugo da Vignola, at your service. Mr. Droski provided me with this charming home and you must be Miss Kolevski, my future guide.”

Darya clenched her teeth, unable to believe what she saw. The blood pounded in her temples, her very sight unnerved her, her heavy breathing became painful. She finally managed to say a few words.

“Who are you?” she hissed.

Rempert contemplated the girl at length, taken aback by her question. Droski had assured him that the girl was not a drug user but, on closer inspection, he began to doubt the word of the Mafioso.

“Dear friend...” he hesitated. “I just gave you my name.”

She closed her eyes for a minute, about to burst into tears, and then opened them again. The expression on her face didn’t change and he discerned dull anger when she screamed:

“Tell me who you are!”

He raised his hands in a sign of appeasement, concerned in the face of such a delusional attitude.

“I do not understand what you want,” he said gently, his eyes fixed on hers. “Explain yourself.”

She finally seemed to respond to his words and gasped. He had just triggered something, a kind of awareness, and she realized that his nature differed from that of the people she encountered every day. His outward appearance was unscathed, bright with life... it had been a very long time that she had been able to admire it, hers aside.

“I see you,” she whispered.

“Well, that is fortunate but...”

“You don’t understand!”

Darya approached and gazed at Ugo da Vignola from head to foot. He was quite tall, slender, refined... and his face... his face! So handsome, despite the wrinkles around the lips and eyes, so well preserved. A little pale, certainly, but compared to those she was used to looking at, it was day and night! She swallowed, near hysterics.

“I see you,” she repeated, anxious. Then she pointed to her scar with a finger. “For a long time, I can only see death in people. Old age, illness, brutal death by hanging, gun, knife... whatever. Walking corpses, that’s what they are for me! But you...”